Two Sides, One Coin
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: In which Arthur realizes the significance of Merlin's smile, Merlin realizes what a bad mistake leaving Camelot with Freya would have been, and they both invent the first-ever noogie. One-shot for The Lady of the Lake. NOT SLASH, just brotherly fluff.


_I beg of you, please ignore the lame and very overused title. I promise I wouldn't have called it this if it hadn't been for the fact that there are two separate parts-an Arthur-POV and a Merlin-POV. Not very clever, but it works.  
This story was written because it's taken me exactly two days of obsession to officially fall in love with this show and these characters. That, and that brotherly!Arthur moment at the end of _The Lady of the Lake_ was just begging for some sweet, slightly angsty character development.  
There might be spoilers here, if you count a written form of the last scene in _The Lady of the Lake_ a spoiler... (Why the heck do we give warnings for spoilers anyway?)_

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**Two Sides, One Coin**

Arthur Pendragon was unhappy, and had been since he had awoken that morning.

He had no explanation for it, really; as much as Merlin accused him of being short-tempered and changeable, it was rare indeed that he was cross without apparent reason. It was quite true, he must admit, that he did not appreciate the first light of morning in the least—yes, without a very good reason other than that _it's early_—and it had become a habit to express this aversion in the form of tossing at least two lightweight items in the direction of his faithful manservant every morning before breakfast. Come to think of it, that may possibly be why he'd found Merlin had rearranged his belongings a bit and put the least damaging objects closest to his bed.

Had he not been in such a vexed mood, Arthur may have chuckled to himself. Clever Merlin.

_Speaking of Merlin,_ his eyes caught a glimpse of a tousle-headed, gangling, too-thin figure moving silently and inconspicuously down the hall before him, looking busy and uninterested in his surroundings, as he always did when he was working. (Anyone who took the time to learn him for a moment would know this impression was anything but accurate, however. Merlin was anything but uninterested; in fact, it was the innate curiosity of the little nuisance that got him into more trouble than his clumsy magnetism for danger.)

Almost without thought (a second rare occurrence for him), Arthur quickened his pace and followed his servant's footpath. There was something not right, he realized. Perhaps it was the way Merlin was walking; his pace was as quick as it always was, but his posture was altered for some reason. His head was not raised high as per usual, but his eyes looked floor-ward as he walked, the slight hunch of his narrow shoulders giving a sense of dejection. It was not right, not at all. It was downright unnatural, in fact. Merlin was never dejected. A bit incensed sometimes if injustice was at hand, and even disheartened when tragedy struck others, but _never_ dejected.

As he followed a short distance behind his manservant, Arthur tried to think back to how long Merlin had been like this. He hadn't been so yesterday, he recalled; in fact, the boy had seemed more than a little eager and flustered the day before. He remembered thinking that Merlin was acting as though he had someplace important to be; he also remembered, to his slight shame, that he had not liked Merlin's looking that way at all. He had not stopped to consider it at the time, but now he realized that when the observation passed his mind that Merlin had somewhere he'd rather have been, it had aggravated him.

This was mysterious, he thought. Why, though? Why was he so annoyed to think that Merlin wanted to be somewhere other than the castle? All the servants did, after all. He himself wanted that, every once in a while. Everyone wants to put off his responsibilities and duties and have the freedom to do what he wants when he desires it.

Even so, Merlin was different. Of all the servants Arthur had had in the past, Merlin was the first who was…well…as he was. All other servants had been either too obedient and submissive—more like entranced slaves than sensible human beings—or too defiant and sulky, always copping a pitiful attitude when told to do something. Merlin was neither over-submissive nor over-defiant; he was the perfect balance of both, never shirking or postponing his chores or orders and also never afraid to question and confront his master if he did not agree with him. Moreover, not once could Arthur ever recall a time when Merlin had acted rushed and hurried to escape him and be someplace else, as every servant—no matter how obedient or boisterous—had done in the past.

Arthur stopped as Merlin disappeared into the prince's chambers, removing from his trouser pocket the rag with which he cleaned Arthur's boots twice a week.

There was the heart of the problem, he realized. Merlin had never acted as though he wanted to leave while he was serving Arthur. He did all that was asked of him with diligence and patience, no matter how boorish Arthur's tone; but he did not just clean his room or change his bed or prepare his bathwater. Merlin did so much more than that; he talked.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would say that Merlin's talking was both foolish and uncalled-for prattle. He had something to say about everything; he could make even the weather sound exciting, and though he did not speak tactlessly or when inappropriate, he took every opportunity to say _something_ to Arthur. Usually it was something witty and, more than often, mildly disrespectful, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

It was almost like having a younger brother around. True, a younger brother who served him meals and washed his clothes and obeyed his every command, but still a younger brother. He could be impertinent and quick-witted toward Merlin, and Merlin would respond with an equally quick-witted—sometimes more so, though Arthur would never admit it—retort, and they would glare hotly at one another or burst into a bout of laughter.

Merlin acted like he _wanted_ to be with Arthur, like he enjoyed his company, not because he was prince or prime knight of Camelot, but because he was _Arthur_, and he genuinely liked him. Sometimes, Arthur even felt that Merlin understood him—at least better than anyone else in the kingdom. And sometimes he felt that he understood Merlin in return, though he knew that the next moment Merlin would be surprising him again.

He had hit upon it, he knew. He liked Merlin, and whether it was illusion or not, he didn't care—it cheered him to imagine that Merlin liked him in return. Merlin was his closest…he wouldn't say "friend," but….Still, the thought of his astute servant rushing off to loiter about with some freckle-faced, commonplace street urchin ruffled him to no end.

It was this compilation that probably had led to his unfair outburst of temper when Merlin had overheated his bathwater the day before.

He winced, wondering how long it had taken Merlin to dry after he'd doused him with a bucketful of cold well water.

Arthur glanced into the room. Merlin was sitting in the floor now, still scrubbing the first pair of boots, as if his mind was distant and his movements mechanical. His pale face was still turned downward, still despondent, as though he had just lost his dearest friend.

Arthur had had enough. If Merlin insisted on acting so like an idiot over a few drops of water, then he would simply go on with his usual daily activities and entirely ignore the boy's demeanor; it would wear off eventually, and he would never have to endure the awkwardness of one of his infamous blundering apologies.

He quietly shut the door, then reopened it and entered.

Merlin looked up, surprise flitting across his innocent face momentarily before it vanished again into that same, numb expression.

"Ah, Merlin," he greeted him offhandedly as he re-shut the door and tossed aside the metal cuff he'd been carrying, "I've been looking for you."

"Yeah, right," the servant replied with a tinge of bitterness and something like longing in his flat voice, "you're going to ask me to polish your armour and to wash your clothes and to clean your room."

With that, he looked back down at his working hands and continued to rub the same spot on the toe of the boot.

And as quickly as that, Arthur's plan to feign ignorance dissipated. Guilt and—to his own surprise—sympathy for his companion ("companion" is less vulnerable than "friend," after all) defeated his own pride and dread, and he knew what he must do.

Moving slowly so as to attempt organizing his thoughts, Arthur sat on the floor beside Merlin, looking at the servant's tense back as he _continued_ to polish the same boot. He bit his lower lip and watched Merlin for a moment. He had not been able to fathom yet why it was that it felt much more natural and easy to sit at the same level as Merlin, but since it was not until he met his manservant that he'd had this consciousness to do so, he thought perhaps it might have something to do with his knowing that, apart from titles and positions, they were…_almost_ equals. Merlin had earned more respect from him than anyone else he'd ever known, at any rate.

This is the thought which fuelled his next words.

"Something has been upsetting you, hasn't it?"

The scrubbing continued, and then,

"Maybe."

Arthur looked away briefly, trying to find a way to voice his concerns without sounding like a complete _daffodil_. A direct approach was probably for the best, he decided.

"Was it when I threw water over you?"

Then, Merlin looked up, turning slightly so that Arthur could clearly see the side of his face. A familiar, ironic smile accompanied a huff of laughter, and he looked at the prince, his eyes only partially dancing.

It was then, in that one moment, that Arthur realized why he'd been feeling so very unhappy all day. There hadn't been a smile.

Every morning, since the very beginning of Merlin's employment in the castle, he had awoken to the same thing, over and over again.

"_Rise and shine!" And a big, cheeky grin._

This morning, there had been the usual "Rise and shine!" but the morning had lacked the other significant component. Merlin's smile.

It almost worried the prince that he had become so very dependent upon his new servant. When had Merlin's morning greetings begun to have such a potent affect upon his mood? He supposed, now that he considered it, this had started at the same time everything else concerning his behavior around Merlin had started—how his concentration improved when he took Merlin along on his hunting trips, how he felt more relaxed standing before the royal court when Merlin was across the room, how his trepidation and distress were so lessened in treacherous situations when he knew Merlin stood behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell and urge him to return to the complex battle he called his life.

On and on it went, the changes that had occurred because of Merlin. None of them were great, or remarkable, but only subtle and placid. So much so, Arthur hadn't even noticed until now. He supposed that should concern him, that Merlin was so capable of altering the everyday without his ever seeing it happen.

As far as the immediate present went, however, he was concerned only for one thing.

"That wasn't very nice," Merlin's lighthearted answer broke through his flashing realization, and he was pulled back into the conversation by his servant's glancing playfully at him over his shoulder.

Arthur was close enough to see the ring of green around Merlin's pupil which faded to the unwavering blue; had he been the poetic type, he may have compared Merlin's eyes to the ancient sea after a rampant storm.

It was a good thing he was not the poetic type, he decided, and cut that thought off immediately.

"It was a bit unfair," he acknowledged honestly, the guilt returning at seeing Merlin's taking it so prudently.

Merlin just smiled and resumed his chore.

"Like when you called me _fat_," Arthur couldn't resist adding. Well, he thought, if he felt guilty over offending Merlin, then he didn't see why Merlin should escape the guilt; he'd been just as wrong, after all, with his hurtful accusation about the prince's looks.

"Why was that unfair?"

The words had hardly escaped Merlin's mouth before he was instinctively responding,

"Because I am not f—"

Then he caught sight of the half-smirk on his servant's face, and realized with a twinge of irritation he'd been toying with him, as always.

He rolled his eyes and Merlin gave his usual, infuriatingly calm response—just another tolerant smirk that seemed to reveal that he knew exactly how to provoke his master.

Arthur determined that was still not good enough, however, for that slightly haunted look still tugged at his fr—servant's gentle features.

So he did the first thing he thought of. He grabbed Merlin's scrawny neck in a vice grip, yanking him so that he could wrap an arm around his throat, and held him there as he chafed his knuckles against his scalp.

"Still think I need to get in shape?" he goaded, as the boy spluttered and fruitlessly fought against him.

"No!" came the meek and fraught answer, between exclamations of mirth. "No, no, no, no."

He released him accommodatingly, and couldn't help but grin outright as Merlin rubbed his ill-treated head and tried to flatten his now hopelessly unkempt hair.

"_Wha..?"_ the question silently formed in his lips, as he looked at Arthur incredulously.

"That's better," Arthur affirmed, as the last traces of sadness were chased away from Merlin's bearing by a delighted grin.

"Thanks," the younger man murmured, pure sincerity mixing with the still-present disbelief on his face.

Arthur nodded, still grinning himself.

"You are right, though," he said, his former self rising back to the surface now that his day had finally begun the right way.

Merlin regarded him curiously.

"You need to polish my armour, wash my clothes, _and_ clean my room."

He did not wait to see Merlin's expression, just cuffed him on the shoulder once and sprung to his feet, leaving the boy sitting in the floor with the news.

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Arthur did not see Merlin's eyes flicker upward as he walked away, or see the fond look of irritation pass over his face. He most certainly didn't know it when Merlin reflected upon the day before, on the girl he'd loved then lost so briefly, and didn't hear inside the young magician's mind when he thought to himself that perhaps—just perhaps—it had all been for the best, after all.

True, Merlin thought as his master's footsteps echoed hollowly down the passage, Arthur Pendragon was no Fraya, but he felt in his heart, now that he was not blinded by the thrill of fleeing his troubles as he had been, that leaving Camelot could possibly have been the worst mistake of his life. It had been tempting—oh, so very, very tempting—to escape all the hurdles and fears tossed at him on a daily basis. Would it really have been worth it all in the end, though?

He looked at the door; he could no longer see Arthur down the castle hall. It was true that the prince was more or less a prat; still, this was only true for most of the time—not all. He had, in the time he'd known him, learned to see past the prince's fearless and self-important façade, and seen the real Arthur, the good, kind, just Arthur who wanted only prosperity for his people and peace for himself.

The dragon had made it clear that Merlin was to be Arthur's cohort in helping him achieve that.

He would never forget Fraya or her gentle understanding, but he could feel it in his very soul that he was not meant for the life they'd wanted together. He was meant to be a servant, protector, and friend to the man who would someday be the greatest king Camelot had ever known; that was his destiny, and as turbulent and distressing as it could be at times, it was moments like this—when Arthur forgot himself and cared for Merlin best he could, in a way that only the two of them could ever understand—that reminded him that they were irrevocably connected by a force unseen and unclear, but present nonetheless.

They were two sides of the same coin, after all. Without Merlin, Arthur would surely die at the hands of his enemies and his destiny to rule Camelot would dwindle away, unfulfilled. More than that, a good man with a heart pure and noble would be lost from the world, when so few such men remained. Without Arthur, Merlin would have no destiny, and his extraordinary gifts would be for naught. He thought, without pride, of all the good he had done whilst serving Arthur; how much had he gained…how much had all Camelot gained from his being here?

He chewed on his lower lip as he thought of all the adventures he'd survived, and all the rewards he'd received as a result of his efforts—perhaps not tangible rewards, but….He looked around the room. The Pendragon castle still stood, Camelot still thrived, and Prince Arthur still lived. That was reward enough.

So he would stay, he decided with a renewed resolve. He would stay, no matter how difficult it became, and remain true to his future king.

It was his destiny, and he knew that he would never be happy otherwise.

Besides, he thought, maybe someday Arthur's egotism would fade altogether, and it would become normal for him to treat Merlin so gently and understandingly.

"Haven't you finished those boots _yet_, you lazy idiot?" a loud and definitely _not_ gentle voice broke through his revolutionary thoughts.

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, his muscled arms crossed over his chest.

"I hope you have a plan, Merlin," he continued disapprovingly, "because at this rate, you won't be done with all of your chores by the end of the day, and I'll have your work doubled tomorrow."

Merlin only raised an eyebrow, his mouth tightening.

"And I'll let you help me with my training," added the prince sinisterly, "because I know how much you simply _love_ that."

A heavy round of wood with a bullseye painted on it flashed across his mind's eye, and he felt his face drain of all color.

"It's settled then," Arthur laughed, and turned away, a new skip in his step.

Then again, the young warlock thought as he started on the next pair of boots post-haste, perhaps he was hoping for a bit _too_ much. Arthur Pendragon was a prat, and a royal one. Perhaps some things simply would never change.

And he discovered that he didn't truly mind. As long as he had his master, and Arthur his protector, they would find a way to survive.

**The End**

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_Hope you liked it! It's my first Merlin fic, so let me know if it's any OOC or if I have anything wrong. Gracias!_


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